


midnight hours, cobble street passages

by timelxrd



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/F, Whump, Whumptober, thasmin, tw:blood
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-08
Updated: 2019-10-08
Packaged: 2020-11-27 15:48:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,086
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20950922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/timelxrd/pseuds/timelxrd
Summary: short fic for the prompt ‘stab wound’ for whumptober!!thank u @yasminkhxns for betaing this!!!! ily





	midnight hours, cobble street passages

“It really wasn’t as scary as the original, Yaz,” the Doctor starts the minute they pass through the revolving doors of the cinema, using her free hand to gesture alongside her words. “Plus! The original had a cameo by none other than myself, so it’s automatically better.” 

“Wow — full of yourself much, babe?” Yaz remarks, following the route back to the TARDIS at a slower pace than usual. She has work in the morning, but that hardly works as an excuse when your girlfriend can navigate time and space. She really should go, though, so she enjoys her time with the Doctor on their gradual amble back through the city’s streets. “Anyway, if it wasn’t that scary, what were you doing hiding behind your coat and gripping my hand all the way through?”

“I —” the Doctor falters, brain working overtime to match up to the words falling from her tongue. “I thought I was going to sneeze. Didn’t want to upset any of the other people in the cinema, did I?” Then, a little shyer, a little softer, “And I like holding your hand.”

Any teasing counter Yaz had in response dies in her throat at the Doctor’s tender admission, and she can’t help but draw her a touch closer, squeezing her hand. “You do?” 

“Yeah! It’s nice and — and comforting and soft. You have really smooth hands, Yaz,” the Time Lord hums matter-of-factly, the blush coating her cheeks visible even in the golden light of streetlamps above. “Makes me feel all warm inside.” 

Yaz is giddy and giggling and enamoured when she brings her girlfriend’s hand to her lips, pressing a kiss to the back of her palm. “You have such a way with words, babe.”

“Oh, shut u—” Any attempt at a comeback halts mid-way up her throat when a pained cry echoes from an alleyway beside an abandoned church adjacent to them. Startlingly, the Doctor finds the sound is familiar. “What was that?”

A hooded figure scampers out from the shadows, menacing, breathless but indistinguishable as he runs down the street and disappears with the stroke of midnight. 

Bells toll overhead when the Doctor launches into action, jogging across the empty road and inching toward the source of upset. 

Yaz takes in the environment in unwelcome recognition of an event she’d, until now, successfully blocked from her memory. Dread rolls over her in waves of deep red, garnering her suddenly rooted to the spot and shaking her head in refusal — to the memories swirling in her head or the Doctor’s enthusiasm to help, she’s not sure. Flashes of oozing blood and loud solace render her breathless. She knew visiting the past would have its comeuppance one day. 

The resistance on her hand makes the Doctor lurch back, stumbling to a stop and swinging a questioning glance over her shoulder. “Yaz?”

“Doctor — we shouldn’t. We need to go.” 

“What do you mean?” the Time Lord asks, confusion turning her usual chipper smile into a frown of deep-rooted concern. Her eyebrows raise in question, then soften in empathy when Yaz flinches, catching sight of fluorescent yellow against the ground half-way down the alleyway. “Yaz, what’s wrong? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“I can explain later — we just — we need to leave.” Yaz’s hand trembles in her girlfriend’s hold, and when she tears her eyes away from the scene, her pupils dance to a song of pleading desperation. “Please.”

“But — Yaz, they sound hurt,” the Doctor implores, giving Yaz’s hand a gentle squeeze. She turns back at the sound of quiet gasping and groaning, then a small, weepy cry. “I want to help — so do you, I would’ve thought?”

“It’s not — that’s not what I mean.” But she’s too late. Dedicated solely to helping those in need, and an unstoppable force at that, the Doctor jogs the rest of the distance to the alleyway’s entrance. 

Within seconds, she understands Yaz’s abrupt refusal. 

Slumped against a row of dustbins and out of sight of those walking by, is Yasmin Khan. Blood seeps through the material of her uniform and melts against the pressure of her hand, dribbling between her fingers and pooling in her lap. Her breaths are coming out in short gasps and she’s whispering into the radio attached to her vest. 

She’s alone and bleeding and hurt and the Doctor has to tuck herself around the corner, unseen, to muffle her gasp. 

When her girlfriend joins her, the Doctor reaches for her shoulder. “Yaz — that’s you.” 

“It is, yeah.” Yaz murmurs, pensive, guilty, somewhat ashamed. “Two years ago, on that spot. The bloody mugger got me before I could talk him down.” She pauses, taking a breath, steadying the overwhelming drumbeat reverberating through her cerebrum. Instinctively, she lifts a hand to rest against her abdomen, where a neat line puckers her skin and phantom pain makes her gasp. “Please — we should leave. I don’t — I don't want to see this. Neither do you.”

The Doctor is torn. “But there’s no one here. You’re alone and you’re bleeding and there’s _ no one here, _ Yaz.” Though their words are exchanged in quiet whispers, it does not limit their harshness. 

“You said it yourself — you can’t change the past, Doctor. You can’t interfere. If you do something now — maybe we won’t have met. I’m not risking that.” Yaz is earnest and pleading, reaching out for the Doctor’s wrist when, hypocritically, she yearns to help. “Doctor, please.” 

“I’ve got to do _ something,” _she states as though it’s fact, turning slightly to peek around the red-brick wall. Luckily, the younger version of her girlfriend has her eyes squinted closed to keep the pain at bay. It’s an unsuccessful attempt, by all accounts, when her pressure weakens and blood drips like a faulty tap into the sodden cobbles beneath her. 

Out of reach, the younger version’s phone lays smashed but functioning. The Doctor makes a split-second decision. Crouching, she reaches out to slide the device over the slick surface to a position in reach, then ducks back behind the wall. 

At her side, Yaz takes her hand and leads her away. “Thank you.”

The perpetrator's details were given in the next day by an unnamed member of the public. 

Yaz turns, regarding the woman now stood at the console with a slow smile on her lips. “You handed in his information to the station, didn’t you?”

The blonde gasps, faux-innocence lacing eyes too green and too open for her own good. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” 

  
  
  



End file.
